


Blank Canvas

by thesmallestmouse



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Body Paint, M/M, Roughhousing, Tickling, painter!Jack, this doesn't go where you'd think it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestmouse/pseuds/thesmallestmouse
Summary: Jack accidentally spills paint onto Crutchie. Crutchie is too preoccupied to care, until he isn't. Shenanigans ensue.





	Blank Canvas

“Shit,” Jack cursed softly at the blob of blue paint that fell onto Crutchie beside him. Crutchie, for what it’s worth, seemed unperturbed by the paint on his back, just a slight shiver running down his spine at the cold. Jack moved to wipe away the paint with some scrap cloth, but Crutchie shifts away from his hand, moving for the first time from his spot pressed to Jack’s side.

“Don’t. You’ll just waste it. ‘Sides, the cold feels nice.” He said, his voice gravelly from disuse after hours of reading next to Jack. As he said it, Jack became suddenly aware of now stifling the room it, and moved to crack the window and take off his sweat-heavy shirt. When he turned back, Crutchie had turned back to his reading.

“Alright,” Jack said, “but I’m using you as my palette.” Crutchie (bless his heart) was already so wrapped up in the book that he didn’t respond, and so Jack went back to work with a snort and a shrug.

 

Firstly was the background, deep blues blending into reds too warm and vivid to seem real, soft purples and yellows that seemed confused as to what color they were supposed to be among the blues and oranges. With each color that Jack needed for his piece, he put it onto Crutchie’s bare back. Eventually, Jack pushed back, stretching, as he let the background dry for a few minutes. 

Crutchie moved to get up, but Jack placed one hand on his shoulder, to Crutchie’s protests, pushing him back down. “Jack,” he whined, “I wanna see.”

“Well if ya wanted to move then you should have thought of that before you let yourself get covered in my paint.” Jack retorted, somewhat absentmindedly. Crutchie flopped back down to the bed with a huff, scooting back a few feet on the bed so that he could peak at the piece if he turned his head to the side. Book discarded, Crutchie tucked his arms under his head to watch Jack paint.

“I’m so getting you back for this, Jackie.” Crutchie muttered. Even in his focus, the pet name caused Jack to flush uncontrollably, his hand to waver ever so slightly in its even strokes. Crutchie let his eyes flutter shut, and as Jack pulled out the near-empty neutral colors from his bag Crutchie let himself drift into sleep.

 

Crutchie came to again with Jack’s hand on his back. Well, more specifically, one finger, pushing shades together. Crutchie snorted, trying to roll away from the tickling touch. Jack hummed questionably at the motion, but when he became aware of his surroundings again he laughed triumphant, and grabbed Crutchie’s arm to pull him back towards him.

“So you are ticklish!” He crowed. (Crutchie had, after all, adamantly denied it in the past). Jack dropped his paintbrush into free his other hand, and launched himself at Crutchie. Crutchie squirmed away from Jack, but to no avail as the bigger boy pinned him on his stomach. Jack began a cruel bombardment of jabbing his fingers into Crutchie’s sensitive sides and underarms, and tracing swirls into the paint on his back to cause him to squeak.

After some time, Crutchie managed to pull himself out from under Jack’s pin (not that Jack had let him, of course) and they sat on either side of the bed. Jack pressed his hands, covered in paint, on his knees and he smiled a cocky grin. Crutchie, chest shuddering slightly from the intense tickling, paint smeared across his back and hair. The air felt cold where it blew against the drying paint, and Crutchie reached a hand to try to wipe some of the paint off. Jack tilted his head to the side.

“Hey Crutchie.” Crutchie narrowed his eyes at the other boy skeptically.

“Yeah?”

“You gotta little something in your hair.” Jack cackled as Crutchie threw himself at the other boy.

“That is it you absolute ass!” Crutchie smeared one paint-covered hand into Jack’s hair, coloring him blue and red, while he smacked the other against his bare chest, pushing him onto his back. Before he knew it, Crutchie found himself on top of Jack, straddling the other boy’s chest. Jack’s hand instinctively went to grab Crutchie’s hip, to lift some pressure from his bad leg, but he immediately flushed red and went to pull away as he realized their position. Crutchie grabbed his hand, keeping it in place.

 

Both boys stayed like that for what seemed like a long while, chests heaving in deep breaths after the intense fight (truly, it was only seconds, but neither had to know). Crutchie broke into a slow grin, and cautiously pulled his hand off of Jack’s chest, making sure that he didn’t move under him. When he didn’t, Crutchie leaned backwards, seemingly looking for something while refusing to take his eyes off of the boy below him. Jack looked up at him through hooded eyes, mouth slightly agape.

“Crutchie…” Jack started.

“Now come on Jackie. Turnabout’s fair play.” At the teasing scolding, Jack’s mouth clicked audibly shut, and his eyes went wide. Crutchie found what he was looking for, and pulled back the little tube that had fallen to the floor. Crutchie leaned so that Jack couldn’t see, and Jack could only hear the tube pop open. 

“Crutchieee,” Jack whined, trying to knock Crutchie off his hips. Crutchie didn’t move from his mission, and when he turned back and tossed the tube to the side Jack could see what he had grabbed.

“Crutch.” Jack warned. Crutchie smirked, and with a quick motion smeared the mound of paint onto Jack’s face with a splat. Jack gasped, and pushed Crutchie off his chest as he rubbed his hand into his face to get extra paint.

Just like that the two of them were back at it, laughing and wrestling on the bed. (They tried to keep the paint off the bed.) Before long Jack had Crutchie pinned on his stomach, and was once again being tickled mercilessly. (They didn’t succeed.) 

At some point the sun had gone down during their roughhousing, and Crutchie paused in his wriggling to shiver and press himself to Jack’s warm side. Jack realized the cold in the air was more than just the drying paint, and so he pulled away to close the window. Crutchie let out a cry in protest at the loss of his heat, and pulled himself up into a sitting position as Jack turns back.

Jack was suddenly self aware as Crutchie scrutinized him, and Jack’s shoulders hunched in on himself. Crutchie leaned forward and pulled Jack onto the bed, and, his face serious, rubbed some wet paint off of Jack’s lips. (This was Jack’s second favorite face of Crutchie, after his ecstatic smile.) 

“Come here, Jackie.” He pulled Jack in for a deep kiss, but when he pulled away he tried to rub off the wet paint that tainted his lips too. The taste was disgusting, plastic and bitter. Jack laughed, and slid off the bed, Crutchie’s hands still in his. He pulled Crutchie forward with a “come on, let’s shower,” and Crutchie followed.

 

After both boys were clean, they headed back into the bedroom. Upon seeing the mess of the bed and floor, Crutchie’s face crinkled into a frown.

“I’m not cleaning that.” (He helped.)


End file.
